


Report 7

by Rammstein6669



Category: Death Stranding (Video Games)
Genre: About Lucy amd Sam, And I unlocked Report 7, Bodily Harm, But I just got the platinum for the game, Definite warning for graphic convulsions, Gen, Graphic, I don’t really like Lucy, Lucy is a bitch, Sam is a sad man, Seizures, Slight gore?, So yeah, Suicide, Uhhh this is kinda platonic, and fuck, chest compressions, therapist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:14:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23652922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rammstein6669/pseuds/Rammstein6669
Summary: “It’snotall in my head...” Sam continued, still strikingly calm. “And I’m gonna prove it to you.”
Kudos: 19





	Report 7

**Author's Note:**

> So, I finally finished the platinum for DS after weeks of grinding. During that process I unlocked Report 7, which totally caught me by surprise. I never really considered the concept of Sam killing himself to prove a point. So here we are. The fic follows the report as closely as possible. 
> 
> This fic is also dummy short and was written really quick so don’t get your hopes too high. Hope you like it!
> 
> (Here’s the link to Report 7 if you want to read it before the fic: Report 7)

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Sam checked his watch once again before entering the waiting room. He sat down with a few minutes to spare, running his hands across his black-jean clad thighs. Not long after, the door opened. 

“I’m glad to see you here, Sam”

He looked up at the therapist, face expressionless, and nodded curtly in acknowledgment. He stood up and followed her into the office, his gait relaxed. She shut the door behind him, and they both sat in their respective chairs. There was a pause of tense silence until she finally spoke. 

“So,” she began after clearing her throat, hands folded across her lap. “How are you feeling?”

Sam took a deep breath before speaking, his dark brown hair hanging loosely down to the black shirt that tightly gripped his broad shoulders. 

“I’ve been thinking a lot about last week.” He answered. 

She scanned his face for any sign of emotion, but there was still none. 

“And how do you feel about what was said?” She questioned with a soft voice. 

He paused as he searched for the right words. 

“Wistful.”

She analyzed his face, trying to decipher the meaning of his response. But, he gave away nothing. 

“Will you elaborate on that for me?” She inquired calmly, still thinking of his furious outburst from the previous week. 

And finally, the slightest hint of emotion at that: Sam stared her dead in the eye and smiled. Not much, just the simple upturn of the corner of his mouth, but enough. 

“You were so sure of yourself.” He spoke quietly, yet still confidently. “Not a doubt in your mind.”

He shifted slightly in his seat, his restless legs bouncing softly as he leaned back. His heavy work boots accentuated every movement he made with a muffled thud against the hardwood flooring. 

“You have no idea how much I want you to be right.” 

She looked at him with an impassive face, unsure of where he was leading the conversation. He was still so uncharacteristically calm. And much to her pleasure, he continued. 

“You said the Beach was a coping technique...” Sam continued, large hands tightly gripping the armrests. “A way to rationalize and fill the void of love Bridget never gave me.” 

He scoffed at that, his hair shuffling as he shook his head slightly. 

“‘Repatriation isn’t real!’ You told me. Just an explanation for near death experiences.” Sam continued, his voice containing more energy as he went on. 

“So I’m here to show you.”

Her brow furrowed at his last statement, concerned about the implications. 

“Sam, there’s no way that you can reasonably show that the Beach exists.” She retorted, staring at him with confusion. However, she was interrupted. 

She watched on with horror as Sam made a sudden, rapid movement, pulling a syringe out of his back pocket. She stared at the full, plastic tube, the clear liquid in it sloshing about. 

“It’s _not_ all in my head...” Sam continued, still strikingly calm. “And I’m gonna prove it to you.”

Before the therapist had a moment to think, Sam flicked off the cap of the syringe and drove it hard into his chest. He winced slightly at the feeling, the long needle piercing directly above his heart. He quickly pushed the plunger down, silent as the older woman looked on in terrified shock. It was mere seconds before the volatile chemicals took their effect, leeching their way into Sam’s bloodstream. Within a moment his muscles began to lock, his body going stiff as his nervous system panicked. He rasped horribly as his lungs grew paralyzed, and his fingers tightened into cragged angles. His entire body began to convulse, harsh tremors racking through his frame. His hands shook violently, and his heavy boots slammed repeatedly against the wood below him. Eventually, the spasms forced him out of the chair and onto the ground. The sickening sound of his skull slamming brutally against the floor shocked the therapist, who had been frozen in place with terror, into rushing towards him and dropping to her knees beside his still seizing body. 

She nearly hyperventilated as she attempted to prevent his head from colliding into the floor again, but he was too strong and heavy. She watched with horror as his eyes rolled back, only a slim sliver of the white scleras visible. She could tell he was unable to breath, his involuntary groans making the sound of his rasping even worse. Her hands trembled in fear as foamy saliva travelled from his mouth and down his cheek, then dripping onto the floor. And eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, he stopped moving. 

She pulled out the syringe and immediately started performing chest compressions, her small frame struggling to press down upon his large sternum. She could feel his rib cage flexing beneath her palms, knowing there was a likelihood of snapping a bone. After a few minutes of desperate effort that stripped her of her breath, she stopped. She knew what she was doing was futile. She looked down at him with tears in her eyes, barely able to breath. 

“I just killed the president’s son.” 

She looked down at Sam’s body in utter shock, unable to process what had just happened. His limbs were turned in awkward angles, spit still glistening on his face. There was no beauty in his death, no grace. She sat beside his motionless corpse, afraid to touch him even now. Her chest still heaved with every breath, and her sundress felt terrifyingly constricting with each inhale. She had not the slightest idea of what to do next, and she desperately wracked her brain. Should she try to call the president directly? Medics? Copse disposal? Whatever the choice, she knew she didn’t have long. She had heard the horror stories of corpses going necro and voidouts. Oh god, what if they didn’t get here in time? What if—

She let out a startled scream when Sam suddenly took a deep breath, his eyes cracking open. He hurriedly scuttled away from the perceived body, her heart racing yet again. She watched with shocked fear and he slowly rose onto his elbows, pushing himself into a sitting position. He turned to look at her. 

“Lucy...” Sam spoke with the same calm expression he wore when he walked in the door. 

He grasped absentmindedly at his left bicep, just below the sleeve of his shirt. His subconscious movement pulled her attention to the rapidly appearing handprint there, much darker than the ones that were already present. _They’re left by the dead_ , she recalled Sam telling her. 

“I’m a repatriate.” Sam said matter of factly, his voice monotone and firm. “Every time I die, I get stuck in-between, and then come back.”

He looked directly in her eyes, searching, _hoping_ , he would find the words he so desperately needed. Something in him seemed to break as he struggled to speak, and emotion suddenly washed over his face. 

“That world won’t have me, and neither will here.” He continued, how voice now wavering. “I’m only free to come and go when I’m with her...

With Amelie.”

His voice broke then, and the tears that were gathering on his eyelashes finally began their journey across the contours of his face. Lucy looked on silently, and seeing Sam, a man normally so reserved and stoic, displaying his emotions so openly pushed her over the edge. She began to cry as well, seeing nothing but loneliness on his face. 

Without thinking, she reached out and grabbed his hand, the motion completely instinctive. It was only when she heard Sam’s surprised inhale that she remembered. However, much to her surprise, he didn’t pull away. She gently squeezed, her slim fingers dwarfed by his calloused workman’s hands, and was delighted to feel him do the same in response. She stole a glance up at him, searching those wide, vulnerable eyes. 

“You can trust other people bedsides Bridget and Amelie.” Lucy spoke, her tone soft and wavering. “You can trust me.”

Sam nodded at that, a small smile gracing the corner of his mouth. 

And they held each other. 

For a long, long time.  
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**Author's Note:**

> Please leaves comments and or kudos if you liked it!!


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